


Spies

by elmey



Series: Games of Chance [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmey/pseuds/elmey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Might you be interested in going birdwatching with me tonight, Mr. Solo?"</p>
<p>  <i>The life of spies is to know, not to be known.</i><br/>-- George Herbert</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kleenexwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/gifts).



 

  
  
  
Springtime in Paris was _not_ what it was cracked up to be Napoleon thought to himself,  watching the rain sheeting against the windows of the not quite warm enough  cafe on the Rue Margueritte they had retreated to at the end of the afternoon,  but then little of this Paris assignment had turned out as he expected.  
  
He certainly  hadn't been prepared for Beldon.  London's Number Two, now transferring  to Berlin,  was a legend, both for his cunning and his appetites, surrounded by stories Napoleon had  always taken with a grain of salt.  Too much salt  he realized when he  picked him up  this morning at the _Gare du Nord_.   Henri Pascal had   grinned when Napoleon had asked how he'd recognize him.    "You can't miss him,"  was all he'd said.  
  
Pascal was right, it was impossible to miss Harry Beldon's outsize presence.  "Careful, careful, _fais attention_ ," the voice came first, loud and clear, scolding the porter trying to move an oversize trunk out of the first class car.  Beldon came next, a solid man, just barely starting to run to fat.  Dressed to be noticed in old fashioned splendor.  A leather driving cap sat on tightly cropped salt and pepper hair, and a long black greatcoat with a persian lamb collar swathed his frame.  Napoleon blinked.  

  
 He'd spent the day trailing the newly appointed Berlin chief as he visited a seemingly random selection of haberdashers and victuallers. All seemed to know him, in some shops he bought, in others he chatted. Most of his purchases he arranged to send to Berlin, a few of the smaller items he'd asked Napoleon to carry back to their car, looking straight at him as he did so, a hint of amused malice in his gaze. A malice Napoleon might be imagining, his seven weeks in Paris had made him unexpectedly sensitive to perceived slights. He was tolerated by the Section 2 men here, but he had never been truly welcome.  All were older than he, and looked with a skeptical eye at the first generation of Survival School graduates.  It was not a feeling he  was accustomed to.  
  
  
Napoleon nursed his coffee, pulled his _croissant_ apart and wondered again what Harry Beldon was up to.  They'd run  into Lebedev at _Librairie  Canard Noir_ , the bookshop across the street,  just a surpise meeting of old acquaintances...  what a fortunate coincidence, as they both exclaimed.  Lebedev's cigarette was burning in the ashtray  as he fussed  now with his tea and the sugar crystals.  A few years older than Beldon perhaps? Napoleon found it hard to tell.  Lebedev was lean, hair  swept back from his forehead, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit with a large black shawl pinned carefully at his shoulders.  His cheeks were rosy enough that Napoleon suspected a touch of rouge.  
  
Now he listened to the two men.  He understood the words,  but  the currents swirling underneath  were out of his reach, the casual words belied by the shrewd eyes of his companions as they negotiated, he wished he knew what.  
  
 Lebedev turned to Beldon.  "And how is London?"

  "Cold, wet, gray and dull,"  he answered.

  "You see Paris before you. Cold, wet and gray and far from home," Lebedev sighed theatrically and took a sip of his tea.    
  
"My dear Lebedev, surely after thirty odd years, Paris _is_ home."  
  
"It's not what it was Harry.  Paris is a different city now, it's the Americans, they're everywhere,"  he glanced towards Napoleon.

  "And your countrymen?" Beldon looked amused.  

Lebedev gestured dismissively. "The new Russians, bah. Humourless, _nekulturny_. Oh, they're here, they go everywhere too."

"Even Anouk's?"  Beldon  asked.  

Lebedev shrugged. "When Mischa... " he stopped for a moment, gave Beldon a quick look before he continued.  "Well, she gave up her flirtation with _old_ Russia years ago. We no longer amuse her. Can you believe she didn't even invite me to give  a reading of my new poetry."  

"A shame indeed.  Who amuses her now, then?"  

Lebedev's mouth turned down. "It's all film people, politics and money; it can't be helped, we all have to mix business with pleasure today."  

"But you still go there," Beldon's look was sardonic.  

" _Cheri,  tout le monde_ goes to Anouk's."  
  
"Indeed.  I thought I might look in on tonight's salon."  
  
There was an uncomfortable pause as Lebedev put down his cup  and added another piece of sugar.  "And I supposed you think she'll just let you in,"  he finally said.  
  
"Surely you can bring a guest or two."  
  
Lebedev gave Beldon a sharp look.  "I would like to be invited back you know."  
  
"Even though she won't let you read your poems?    Pyotr, all  I need from you is the front door, preferably in a crowd,  you can disappear after that."  
  
"I lead a simple life,  a few creature comforts, a warm flat, old memories.  But even that comes with a price,"  Lebedev said, reaching for the sugar again.  
  
"Old memories are nebulous things,  the market can be  volatile."    
  
" _Caveat emptor_ , Harry.  I make no representations... " Lebedev  paused.   "Victor is out of town, but of course you knew that," he added as an afterthought.  
  
"We'll pick you up. What time?"  
  
"No.  It'll be easier if I'm inside.  Come to the Pavilion at Eight, there's always a crowd coming in then."  
  
Beldon took an envelope from his jacket pocket, and pushed it across the table with a mocking smile.  "Let me take care of the bill then, a small price to pay for the pleasure of meeting an old friend."  
  
                                                                                                           **~~~~~**

"At this rate we won't reach the hotel till next week."  
  
To Napoleon's  surprise, Beldon had gotten into the front seat of the Peugeot  with him when they left the cafe, it seemed he'd graduated from chauffeur to fellow agent.  Beldon was tapping his fingers on the dashboard now, leaning forward, trying to see through the streaks of rain the windshield wipers were leaving on the front window.  
  
"It's the  rain and the traffic  to  _Saint Lazare_.  All the intersections are clogged,"  Napoleon said.  
  
Beldon  sat back in the seat with an impatient huff.    "So, what did you think of Lebedev,  Mr. Solo?"  he asked after they'd crawled forward another few inches.  
  
Napoleon stared at the  bumper of the car in front of them.  "The meeting at  _Canard Noir_   wasn't an accident," he decided it would be safe to say.  
  
"Very good.  Pyotr  Maximovich is an old... acquaintance."  
  
"A poet?"  
  
Beldon let out a laugh.  "He writes poetry, yes.  As well as memoirs full of lies."  
  
"Lies?"  
  
"Lies are our stock in trade after all.  They can be profitable if used properly.  Lebedev  trades in information."  
  
Napoleon automatically checked his mirrors to make sure no one was following them, then shook his head; _everyone_   was stuck in the same traffic.  He wondered where the conversation was heading.  "And you trust his information?" he asked.  
  
"Real trust is impossible  in our  business don't you think?  But one learns to read between the lines.  Tell me Mr. Solo, are you enjoying your stay in Paris?"  
  
"It is...  educational," Napoleon answered carefully.  "My French has improved I'm told."  
  
Beldon chuckled.  "But it's been a little slow, nevertheless."  
  
Slow was a good word for it  Napoleon thought.  His stay in Paris had so far been limited to reading reports in the UNCLE office, visiting a number of dead drops in obscure parts of the city and several babysitting assignments for troublesome American VIP's who wanted to get into trouble in all the obvious ways.   He knew he'd been sent to Paris for the education not excitement.  Henri Pascal had requested a fill in agent as two of his went on extended medical leave.  To Pascal's annoyance,   Waverly  had grasped at the opportunity to give some international experience to his own new and promising recruit.    
  
"Monsieur Pascal is being careful.  It's his prerogative."  
  
"A bit different fom working with Waverly  isn't it.  He's never been risk averse."  
  
"Mr. Waverly  is very successful," Napoleon said.  
  
Beldon was drumming his fingers on the dashboard again.  "We'll sit here all night  at this rate, let's try a shortcut."  
  
Napoleon colored slightly and shrugged.  "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I haven't driven here enough to know of one."  
  
"No matter, I know plenty."  Beldon leaned forward to peer out the window again.  "Yes.  Over there, you can make a U-turn at the next left."    
  
Napoleon looked, sure enough, there was a gap in the tree lined median;   he took a deep breath, flashed his lights, leaned on the horn and bulled his way to the left, crossed the median and stuck the car's nose into the traffic going the other way, glad that the rain kept their  windows closed.  He heard the horns but was spared  from hearing the curses he could see were being aimed in their direction.  
  
"Move right,"  Beldon said, "move right.  There's a passage  there, under the archway--turn into it."  
  
"The one with the _no cars allowed_ sign I suppose."    
  
Beldon was grinning.  "It has  an exit at the other end."  
  
Well, you wanted some excitement Napoleon said to himself as the car bumped over the curb scattering the few pedestrians braving the rain. It  careened through the cobblestoned alley;  a right turn on the other end,  then left to go the  wrong way on a one way street--forcing two  oncoming drivers onto the sidewalk --tiny streets and tinier alleys, more honking horns and rude gestures,  and suddenly they were going south on Rue Joseph-de-Maistre,  with Beldon's Hotel in sight.  
  
"Well done, Mr. Solo,"  Beldon clapped him on the shoulder.  
  
Napoleon let out his breath.  "You know Paris very well."  
  
"I spent two years here during the war.  Knowing all possible escape routes  is a useful skill to have."  
  
"It seems the city hasn't changed much then."  
  
"Not on the outside,"   Beldon said after a moment's pause.  "Not yet.  Might you be  interested in going  birdwatching with me tonight Mr. Solo?"  
  
Napoleon looked at Beldon in surprise.  There was an anticipatory gleam in the other man's eyes, and he too felt a sudden surge  of adrenalin.   _Finally, some action._   He was flattered, Beldon was one of UNCLE's stars.  But he felt uneasy  as well,  and tried to ignore the  little  voice that that suggested he clear it with Henri Pascal first.  
  
"Why are you taking me?"  
  
"Why not?  It's a simple reconnaisance, but it's bound to be  a lot more entertaining than reading field reports in an office.  Are you up for it?"    As though he could sense Napoleon's hesitation, knew the calculations going through his head, Beldon upped the stakes a bit.  "It's completely voluntary of course."  
  
Napoleon read the implicit challenge, far be it from him to back down.  "Of course, I'll gladly join you.  You think there'll be  Thrush at the salon?"  
  
"You heard Lebedev, all the world goes to Anouk's."    
  
  
                                                                                                             **~~~~~**  
  
  
The rain had turned to a fine mist, the streets were still wet and the streetlights enveloped in haze. In the half block from the car  to the gate on rue Jacob which normally hid the Pavillion's entrance from sight, glints of moisture settled on their evening dress.  Anouk's  Pavillion enclosed two sides of a paved courtyard, the third side was flanked by a partial wall with darkness and the smell of moist earth behind it. The brightly lit windows of the house were a counterpoint to the shadows cast by the thick trunked ivy that overran house and wall.  
  
"Let's make sure to keep each other in sight,"  Beldon said as they fell in behind a group of four people piling out  of a taxi in front of the gate.   "Just in case."  
  
Napoleon nodded.  "What am I looking for?"  
  
"All you need to do young man, is keep your eyes open and watch my back."  
  
  
  
"Harry Beldon!  Where did you come from you old reprobate?"  They'd barely entered the foyer, when Lebedev hailed them from the staircase leading to the main salon.  He came down the stairs and began to fuss,  helping them off with their coats while inserting himself between them and the black clad doorman giving them a mistrustful eye.  "Good lord, how long has it been?  Never mind, never mind, what nasty weather, this is all wet... well don't just stand there my good man, take the coats.  Come, come  our lovely hostess is upstairs, won't she be surprised to see you."  
  
He'd chivvied them to the main staircase long before the doorman was free of the group that had come in with them.  Beldon acknowledged Lebedev's skill with a small smile and a tilt of the head, then allowed him to fade away as they reached the top of the stairs and the entrance to the main salon.  
  
It was smaller than Napoleon expected, half  up-to-date  with its combination of wine-red velvet upholstery and  pearl gray boiserie, half  another century with paintings and tapestries, polished mahogany and ormolu. The crowd was modern  though, filling the salon  with smoke and conversation, the guests dressed in everything from evening wear to the black default of the  bohemians and the studied tattery of the intellectuals.    
  
Beldon stood next to him, completely at home  in his  costume of black velvet  jacket, flowing tie and brocade waistcoat.  He was scanning the crowd, he gained focus as he did so,   becoming  a  noticeable presence in the rooms. It seemed only right that  a  path opened before them in the milling throng.  He took Napoleon's arm and moved them into the melee towards a knot of people on their left.    "Come, let's greet our hostess."  
  
Napoleon saw her from the back  as they approached;    a slim  woman with exquisite posture and a thick chignon of deep chestnut hair.  She turned as though she sensed them;   he had expected beauty, but what he saw instead was a striking face,  all elegant angles  and strange pale eyes.  Shock showed in them a moment, it was quickly hidden,  and he watched  the eyes turned  cold  as  Harry Beldon stood in front of her.  He knew he'd  never seen anything like her.  
  
Beldon bowed.  "Anouk.  It's been a long time."    
  
"Ah, Harry Beldon.   Returned like a  ghost... or just a bad penny."  
  
Ignoring her greeting,  Beldon perservered.  "I've been away from Paris too long.  But when I see you Anouk, the years seem to have stood still."  
  
"What nonsense,"  her French was clipped and chilly.  "Why are you here?  Have you developed an interest in music now?"  
  
"I'm told all the world comes to Anouk's on Thursdays.  How could I stay away?"  
  
"It might be better for all concerned if you resisted temptation now and then."  
  
"Anouk."  Beldon's voice carried a hint of  recrimination.  "At least let me introduce my friend, M. Napoleon Solo.  Napoleon,  Mme  Anouk Lamotte-Souviens."  
  
She turned her eyes  to Napoleon then, and it was as though a switch turned on, he wondered why he'd thought they were cold.  They weren't strange anymore, they were the jewels that made her face come alive.  Their glow enveloped  him as he took her hand and kissed it.  He tried out his French.   " _Je suis enchante de fair votre connaisance_."  
  
"Napoleon."  Her voice  wrapped his name in warmth,  she switched to English and her accent gave everything she said a voluptuous lilt. "You are American of course."  She nodded towards the pretty young girl standing next to her.   "Let me introduce  you to my niece, Eugénie.  _Elle adore les americaines._   Eugénie, show Napoleon where the drinks are and introduce him to everyone."

  "Of course Madame."  The girl  took Napoleon's arm with a mischievous smile and carried him off into the moving crowd.  
  
  "She has the look of  Mischa,"  Beldon  said watching them walk away.  

"She has his brains as well,"  Anouk's  voice  had cooled again.

"A lethal combination."  

"It will be," she said sharply.   "The young man, he's one of yours?"  
  
"Alexanders' protege."  
  
"Ah.  Incorruptible no doubt."  
  
"Of course."  Beldon laughed.  
  
"So Harry.   Five years gone, and tonight here you are.  I suppose you want something. What is it?"  
  
"Anouk, you wound me.  I've missed you."  
  
Anouk gave him an unreadable look.  "You presume Harry, you always have. "  She paused then,  looked straight at him, her eyes intense.  " You still have time to go. "    
  
"But my dear  I just arrived."  
  
"Then I will see you later," she brushed past him.  "Right now I have guests to attend to."

  
  
Beldon frowned as he watched her move to the  landing  to greet two newcomers.  The older man with his lion's mane of gray hair looked vaguely familiar,  remembered from a photograph perhaps.  The young man with him was dressed like a student, all in black, with oddly cut light hair and a pair of black rimmed glasses obscuring his eyes.  Anouk was smiling at them, touching the young man lightly on the arm, while laughing at something the older man said.  
  
He looked around the salon.  Solo was talking to the girl near the bar,  Lebedev was perched on a sofa by  the tea table, and in a corner, partially obscured by a portrait set on an easel, were two men dressed as waiters, surreptitiously watching the oblivious crowd.  It should be an interesting evening.  
  
  
  
  
"Napoleon."  Like her aunt, Eugénie caressed his name, but her accent was more British than French, the effect charming and light.  
  
"My father had an unusual sense of humor."  
  
She  shot him a sideways glance as she drew him towards the bar.    She couldn't be more than eighteen or nineteen Napoleon thought.  A born flirt  with her honeyed cap of hair, styled with the tousled bangs of the more daring Parisian girls.    
  
"I like it.  Are you from New York, Napoleon?"    
  
"I am.  How did you know?"  
  
"I thought all  Americans come from New York,"  she said with a laugh.  
  
"Have you been there?"  
  
"No.  But I wish to go.  I will do so one day.  Does it look like it does in the movies, or will I be disappointed?"  
  
"It  looks even more like New York than the movies. I don't think the  city would dare disappoint you."

"Let me get your drink, Napoleon.  We have whiskey," she said with another sideways glance.  "Americans always want whiskey."

  "I don't dare disappoint you either, whiskey and soda please." 

The bar was in the room adjoining the salon, the wide doors thrown open to make an enfilade.  Chairs were pushed against the  walls, and the  large table in the center was covered with an elaborate  lace tablecloth spread with trays of sandwiches, cakes, crystallized fruit, cheeses and bread,  the effect as colorful as a riotous bouquet.   At one end  was the bar,  the bartender's  hair brilliantined into perfect curls  over his forehead.

Napoleon  watched the girl  wind  her way to the bar, fully aware he was sure, of the appreciative looks that followed her.    He ran his eyes over the rooms while waiting for his drink to be poured.  Beldon was moving towards the alcove in the salon where tea and coffee were served, while their hostess was greeting two new arrivals.

Eugénie returned, carefully carrying his glass, then saw the direction of his gaze.   "Oh no. It's Professor Prud'homme. Let's move away before he sees me. _Merde_ , he's brought that rude little Russian with him  too. Come _on_. " She pulled on Napoleon's arm, her youth suddenly obvious.  
  
He recognized the name of the famous mathematician and looked towards the door again.  Anouk and her guests were  moving away from the stairs and his view was obscured.  "I'll protect you Mademoiselle, from encroaching professors and nasty Russians,"  he promised as Eugénie led him out of the dining room towards a knot of younger people near the doors to the balcony.  
  
  
  
"I don't know what she sees in him,"  Lebedev said from his spot on the sofa,  sipping contentedly at the hot tea straight from the samovar, satisfied  for the moment in this small alcove set back from the noise and bustle of the main room.  
  
La Voyance rolled her eyes.   "Men," she muttered.  
  
Beldon had joined Lebedev and  Elisabeta, or La Voyance as she liked  to style  herself.   Another face from the past, presiding, as she had done since he'd met Anouk,  over the Russian tea.  "We still serve it," she'd told him with a wave of her hand, "a nod to the old days.  But who asks for it nowadays;  look over there, everyone is at the bar."  
  
"Alcohol too, is an old Russian  tradition", he'd answered with a smile and she threw up her hands and made a disapproving noise.  
  
"It's too much for me, all this moving around.  I need a place to sit, and the faithful Pyotr keeps me company."  She leaned over from her chair and patted Lebedev's knee.  
  
"Just for now Elisabeta,"  Lebedev said.  "I'm gone once the ladies come  by to have their cards read."  
  
"Still at the cards, are you?  Both you and Anouk?"  
  
"The cards are a guide Harry, everyone  needs a guide."  
  
Beldon snorted.  
  
"I'll do a reading for you."  
  
"Save it for next time Elisabeta.  Tonight is just a stopover.  I'm on my way to Berlin tomorrow."  
  
"Then how about a  cup of tea  for you?"  she asked.  
  
"Yes, why not," Beldon said.  
  
He raised his eyebrows when he took his first sip.  
  
"A little fortified tea," she explained, "a way to make it through the long evening."  
  
"I'm beginning to see why Pyotr likes to spend his time here--aside from your charming  company of course," he added with a bow in La Voyance's direction.  "Who is  it you were  talking about," Beldon asked,  "who are the people with Anouk?"    
  
"The old gray lion is Prud'homme, the boy is his student."   Lebedev replied.  
   
"The mathematician?"  Beldon asked .  "Ah, I thought he looked familiar.   He and Anouk....?"  
  
"Good lord no,"  Lebedev said.  "The poor man has developed a foolish passion for someone much younger.  He's besotted with our little Eugénie."  
  
"He's been at sixes and sevens since his wife died last year, poor man."  La Voyance sighed.  "The girl is leading him around by the nose.  A kitten learning to use  her claws."    
  
"It was the young Russian I was talking about," Lebedev said.   "I don't know what Anouk sees in him."  
  
"Prud'homme's _student_?  Is that who you mean?"  
  
"Look at him.  That jacket, those glasses,"  Lebedev sneered.  " _That_ is Russia today.  No style whatsoever."    
  
"He must have something if  Prud'homme took  him on."  
  
Lebedev shrugged.  "Bright enough I suppose.    I've heard the boy has  good  connections in Moscow.  Well, he must have,  to be let out.  Being bred for the  _nomenklatura_   no doubt."  
  
"But surely Anouk... he's very young."  Beldon seemed at a loss for words.  
  
"Ach, you men.  None of you  understands anything about women,"  La Voyance was shaking her head.  "He is young, he is beautiful..."  
  
"Beautiful?"  Two pairs of eyes looked at her in surprise.  
  
"You're looking from the wrong vantage point.   Youth always has its beauty.  For a woman of a certain age..."  
  
Beldon looked towards the dining room again.  Anouk had taken the young man to the table and was laughingly heaping everything she could fit onto his plate, touching his arm, casually brushing against him  as she reached for a new confit.  He'd taken off his glasses, and now tilted his head towards her, a slight flush on his cheeks as she whispered something in his ear.  _A woman of a certain age_.  No,  not Anouk, never Anouk.    
  
La Voyance seemed to read his mind.  "Don't be sentimental Harry."  They both watched as Anouk led the young man to a sofa.  "She's enjoying herself,  it's the challenge now."    
  
Beldon  eyes grew dark as he watched, but the smile was back on his face when he returned his attention to his companions.  "And  did you read  _his_ cards?"  
  
"He's really a very rude young man," La Voyance said.  "He refused the reading, superstitious nonsense, he called it.  The two of you  have a lot in common."  
  
  
  
  
  
Napoleon  noted  Beldon's black look,  and turned away from Eugénie for a moment to see who he was staring at.  Their hostess apparently; now standing at the dining table with,  judging from the amount of food on his plate,  what looked like a very hungry young man.   He'd caught only a glimpse of the black clothes and the light hair before, it was his first real look at Eugénie's rude young Russian.   Whatever the girl might think of him,  he recognized a flirtation when he saw one, and Anouk was definitely flirting. He surprised himself with  a momentary stab of envy;   what it must be  like  to be the focus of those extraordinary eyes!    Whether the Russian was more interested in his hostess or his food wasn't quite as clear.  There was a tug on his sleeve.  Eugénie wanted his undivided attention.  
  
"I just wanted a look at  your rude Russian," he told her.  "If  I'm going to protect you, I want to make sure he's not bigger than me."  
  
"Oh you're teasing now,"  she gave his arm a light slap.  "He isn't anyone, he's just Russian."  
  
"And you don't like Russians?"  
  
She shrugged.  "My father was Russian, he and Harry worked together.  Did you know that?"  
  
"With Harry Beldon?"  Napoleon's eyebrows rose.  
  
"Yes, I've known Harry _forever_ , but of couse it's been year's since I've seen him.  My father was his partner,  Mikhail Volkonsky."  
  
Napoleon looked at her with new eyes.  If you'd heard of Beldon, you'd heard of Volkonsky.  Partners during the war and until Volkonsky was killed  a few years afterwards in a badly compromised assignment.  The waters here were much deeper than he'd thought.  "You don't use his name," he said.  
  
"My mother chose not to.  It doesn't matter, what would I do with a Russian name?  I don't like my first name either,  its much too old-fashioned, don't you think?"  she asked leading Napoleon away from his view of the table.   

"With a name like Napoleon, I'm hardly in a position to judge."

  "That's different," she said squeezing his arm. "It's unusual, people pay attention."

  "And you want people to pay attention to you?" Napoleon asked with a smile.  

"When I'm done with that boring Internat in Lausanne this summer,  I shall start using my middle name."

  "And what's that?"

  "I haven't decided yet."  

Napoleon gave her a quizzical look.  

She laughed. "I mean I have several to choose from. I am Eugénie  Madeleine Angelique Lamotte-Souviens."  
  
"Quite a mouthful.  But you  know what they say, a rose by any other name...".  
  
"Come on, let's go over there by the piano.  Maybe we can convince Juliette to play awhile before the  dull music starts."    
  
"We're having dull music?"  
  
"Oh, tonight Poulenc is going to play some bits from something he's working on,  something about nuns.  It's bound to  be unbearable."  
  
Beldon  was still chatting to the group near the samovar.  Napoleon had  been ready to be charmed by Eugénie, now he was intrigued,  and   he willingly  let her   pull him to the other side of the room.  
  
  
  
The young Russian was leaning against one of the walls, arms crossed, watching with a frown as Eugénie teased   Professor Prud'homme, asking the clearly smitten and even more clearly confused old  man to bring her this tidbit and that, then turning up her nose and asking for another,  playing to the laughter of  the young people around her.    
  
"A very pretty girl, our hostess' niece,"  Beldon spoke to him in Russian.  
  
He turned,  his eyes narrowed as he looked Beldon up and down.  "Do you think so?"  he asked, glancing  back at Eugénie.  
  
"Don't you?"  
  
"I think...  I think her face lacks a certain character."  
  
"The young judge harshly,"  Beldon chuckled.  "You can't be much older than she is.    Perhaps if you knew her better."  
  
"I don't think she likes Russians."  
  
"Odd.  I believe  her father was Russian."  
  
"That probably explains everything."  The young man's voice was dry.    "Your Russian is excellent," he added.  
  
Beldon took a good look at him.  Close up, and without the glasses, he could almost see what La Voyance meant when she called him beautiful.  Well, not really beautiful of course,  but there was something that caught the eye.  Intense, a little sullen;  a wary intelligence gleaming in  a pair of  deepset  blue eyes.  A blue that reminded him...  Anouk would have noticed it too.  "I had  very good teachers.  Harry Beldon at your service."  He put out his hand.  
  
The young man straightened and bowed slightly as he shook hands.  "Illya Kuryakin."  
  
"Our hostess on the other hand has plenty of character, doesn't she."  
  
The boy blushed but held his ground.  "She is an exceptional woman," he offered, but no more.  
  
"A long time friend."  Beldon said.  "I have another old friend in Paris.  How is Comrade  Kirov?  
  
The young man's face went blank.  "Excuse me?"  
  
"Sergei Kirov.  I know he's in  Paris now."

"Surely you don't believe that all Russians in Paris are acquainted?"  he sounded bored.  
  
"No, but I think you must know the Rezident."  
  
He could feel Kuryakin withdraw.  The voice turned cold.  "What is it you want, Mr. Beldon?  I have permission to accompany Dr. Prud'homme to this event."  
  
Beldon raised up his  hands.  "You misunderstand me.  I'd just like you to mention my name to my old friend Sergei. Remind him  I know his Uncle too.  Tell him you met me  birdwatching tonight."  
  
Kuryakin scowled.  "I would  not take you for an ornithologist."  
  
Beldon answered in  English.  "There's only one kind of bird I'm interested in dear boy.   _And the brown thrush keeps singing, a nest do you see , and ten eggs, hid by me in the juniper tree."_  
  
Kuryakin certainly had a disconcerting stare.  After a moment something flickered in his eyes,  and he answered in excellent English, with just a trace of a Russian accent.  "You are a curious man Mr. Beldon, but if you insist,  should I see Comrade Kirov I will mention your name.  If you'll excuse me?"  He took his glasses out of his jacket pocket and put them back on, then waded into the crowd to  rescue Professor Prud'homme from the clutches of  his your tormentor.  
  
Beldon watched him edge his way past Eugénie  into the Professor's line of sight.   Yes, he could see it.  A good catch if they could get him,  no wonder they couldn't resist.

   
  
  
Eugénie had left Napoleon with the promise that she'd be back to find  him the best seat when the music started.  Once she left,  he separated himself from the group of young men she'd introduced him to and stood back to watch the crowd.  
  
Outside of work, his first seven weeks in Paris had revolved around the ladies of the office who'd adopted him as their pet American.  He'd allowed it, it made up for the coolness of the French Section 2 men.   They'd introduced him to good restaurants, smoky bistros and strong cigarettes, they'd asked him about cowboys and gangsters and talked about films and food and trips to the South of France. They lived in small flats with other girls or in respectable rooming houses with guardian concierges.  They came up for nightcaps to his Uncle supplied flat and left before dawn to have time to get ready for work.  He was something exotic to them, something to sample but not to buy, and that suited  Napoleon well.  

But tonight at Anouk's he saw a different Paris; the volatile mix of old and new, society and culture, the clashing imperatives of money and class.  The eccentric mix of guests, the exquisite foods, the permeating scent of the flowers on every table, all of it was floating on a current of danger.   Something was stirring here,  all his instincts had come alive.  
  
  
Beldon had gone to speak to their hostess,  they were focussed on each other, unaware of  the crowd around them.     Napoleon  saw the dark suited men in the corners of the room, was glad for the  feel of his holster under his arm, and waited for what would happen next.

  
  
**~~~~~**  
  
  
It was as though she'd been waiting for him.  She stood alone,  by the painting of the  carnations;  her favorite flowers, captured by the artist with the glow of that heightened flush just before they go to seed.  He moved to stand by her,  he looked at the painting,  not yet at her;  seeing her again had affected him in a way he no longer thought possible.  Somewhere, somehow, he knew it was a mistake, but she was here, beside him, and it was as though he couldn't help himself.

_"[Nous aurons des lits pleins d'odeurs légères,](http://fleursdumal.org/poem/197)_  
[ _Des divans profonds comme des tombeaux,_ ](http://fleursdumal.org/poem/197)  
[ _Et d'étranges fleurs sur des étagères,_ ](http://fleursdumal.org/poem/197)  
[ _Ecloses pour nous sous des cieux plus beaux._ ](http://fleursdumal.org/poem/197)*

"You still have  the scent of carnations, Anouk."  
  
She turned to him, her eyes calm and distant.   "Don't be foolish, Harry.  You made a mistake coming here tonight.  There is still time to leave."  
  
"And if I don't want to leave this time?"  
  
"You always leave.  You  and Mischa always left."    
  
Beldon kept his voice low.  "Anouk, we would have taken you with us Mischa and I, it was you who refused to go."  
  
"Look around you Harry.  This house, everything in it, look how beautiful it is.  Generations of history.  This is my family's, this is mine, this is all I have, it is who I am.  This is what you asked me to leave, and for what?"  
  
"For safety.  For us.  We would all have come back after the war."  
  
"But you didn't come back did you.  You and Mischa.  A day here, a day there and you were back to your games.  And when Mischa died I waited.  I waited for you and you didn't come back."  Her voice was still even, but her eyes were alight now,   searchlights, allowing him no place to hide.  
  
"When I did come, Victor was here."   In spite of himself,  he couldn't keep the resentment from showing.  
  
"Two years Harry.  I waited two years."  She stopped, gathered herself, turned away from him, towards the painting and lightly brushed her hand over one of the glowing flowers as though she could feel the real petals beneath.    
  
"These will never fade.  You should have remembered the whole poem Harry.

" _Un soir fait de rose et de bleu mystique,_  
_Nous échangerons un éclair unique,_  
_Comme un long sanglot, tout chargé d'adieux;_

 "Enough.  I don't want to  discuss it with you.  I  do what I must,  you never understood that.  Victor does."

"And what  _must_ you do, seduce boys half your age?  To do what Anouk, to do what?"   He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth, his damnable temper had always been barely on the edge of control around her.  He reached towards her in apology.  
  
She pulled her arm away.  Not calm and distant now but steel, so hard  it hurt.   "To do nothing much different than  you do.   You were always a fool.  I asked you to leave and you didn't.    I have no more to say to you."  
  
He watched as she walked away.  Regret and anger threatened to overwhelm him.  He chose to let  anger  push regret  aside. She was wrong, wrong about him, wrong about everything.  It was she who was selfish, had always been; in love with a name, with a house.  
  
_Les miroir ternis et les flammes mortes._  
  
_The tarnished mirrors and the extinguished flames._   He knew the poem well.  He unclenched his fists and took a deep breath.  Solo was by the balcony doors watching him, he remembered why he was here.   No, she was wrong and he had work to do.

**~~~~~**  
  
  
  
The heat in the room had become oppressive, the air shimmered, there was a fevered intensity in the movement of the crowd around Napoleon.    Someone clapped in the other room  and like a slow wave,  people surged  from table and bar  back  into to the salon where chairs had been drawn around the piano.   As the crowd cleared  the loitering dark suited men came into focus at the edges of the room.   Napoleon  moved closer to the partially open balcony  doors;  the cold air was  refreshing,  but two  more men were  waiting outside.  
  
Professor Prud'homme was still by the table,  his  attention  engaged by his  Russian student and two other young men,  they looked  in serious discussion;   Eugénie was pouting;  still hanging on his arm, trying to move everyone away, but powerless for the moment to regain his attention. The Russian looked up, his eyes quickly scanned the room, he frowned when he saw the black coated men, he looked intently at Napoleon, then turned,  tilted his head, listening again to Prud'homme.  
  
Beldon was coming towards him, his color high, his eyes casually roaming the crowd. "Ahh, it's a bit cooler here," he said, acknowledging Napoleon's glance towards the men on the balcony with a  nod, "but it will be too cold soon. I've never been able to find a spot in these rooms with a happy blend of the two extremes."  His eyes shifted to the  men edging their way towards them as the room cleared. "This is a bit unexpected," he said in a low voice.  Real waiters, do you think?  Four of them."

"Waiters who don't wait," Napoleon said dryly.

Beldon  looked around the room one more time.  "I believe they're trying to herd us onto the balcony, if we're going to move,  let's do it now before the room clears completely."

"Which way out?"  Napoleon asked.

"We'll have to go the way we came.  Be careful, they're going to be armed."

A few chords sounded on the piano in the salon.  "I have an idea,"  Napoleon said.

With a quick  move he turned, shut the balcony doors  and latched them,  then took Beldon's arm and propelled him forwards.

 "A terrible draft," he said in loud, fractured French.  "Maestro,  please, you know what the doctor said.  Your throat is delicate, we need to get you out of this draft."

Beldon didn't  miss a beat.  "My dear young man,"  he patted Napoleon's hand and  coughed obediently.

Napoleon flapped his free hand in distress.  "I hope you haven't caught anything.  Move aside, move aside _monsieur_ ", he shouldered one of the oncoming men in the chest.  "The other room is much warmer, and some tea for your throat.    Oh my, the Paris Opera tomorrow,"  he moaned theatrically,  "please Maestro, come with me."

They'd caught the advancing men by surprise, but the surpise was momentary;  behind him, Napoleon could hear rattling and shouting at the balcony door.  The man he'd pushed reached into his jacket,  but before he could pull out his gun,  they were all distracted by  the sound of breaking glass and a  high pitched scream.  The professor's group had seemed oblivious to the drama unfolding around them, but now  Eugénie stood, the professor's wineglass shattered on the floor  and the front of her dressed soaked red-- and an angry young Russian was shoving another of the  waiters hard enough to make him stumble back into the third man.

" _Imbecile_ , _con_ ," he was shouting.  "Look what you've done.  Why don't you watch where you're going.  Apologize to _mademoiselle_."

Whether it was the insult that enraged him, or the size of his opponent that encouraged him, the waiter took a swing.    Somehow he missed the Russian  and stumbled, bumping the table and grabbing the tablecloth as he tried to catch his balance. 

" _Merde, cochon_ ,  how clumsy can you be,"  Eugenie was screaming at him now as plates cascaded to the floor.  Professor Prud'homme did his best  to get her away as the other young men laughed then shouted insults as well, and suddenly the room was full of curious people, drawn by the noise.  Napoleon and Beldon melted into the crowd.  Only one  man was downstairs, overpowering him was the work of a moment.

It was Napoleon who looked up just before they opened the front door.  Anouk was on the landing, hand on the rail, her face white, watching them silently,  eyes dark and unreadable.    He never knew if Beldon saw her as well.  There were no sounds of pursuit as they made their run for the street.

  
**~~~~~**

I hope I didn't wake you Alex."  Beldon sat on the edge of the hotel bed.  He'd finally managed to put the scrambler together to make his call, the almost empty cognac bottle on the night table hadn't helped.

"It's 7 AM, my day started an hour ago.  What have you got Harry?"

"I think it's time to approach the Soviets again. Their latest attempt to infiltrate Thrush has blown up.  It's about time  they realize they need to work with UNCLE."

"Ah.  You went to Anouk's.  Any trouble?"

Beldon laughed mirthlessly.  "Nothing you didn't count on you old fox.  Send a bull into a china shop...."

  "You did a good job Harry.  We've created a small window of opportunity.  When are you leaving for Berlin?"

"I've got about 18 hours.  Time to sleep and take care of one last chore."

"We need you there Harry.  Thrush is moving East.  You'll be our first line of defense."

Beldon hung up,  he  thought about disassembling the  scrambler and thought tomorrow is time enough.  _You knew about Anouk all the time, didn't you Alex. How long have you and that old Russian bear been planning this?_     He picked up the bottle and drained what was left.  "Ruthless  bastards," he muttered, not without a trace of admiration in his voice.

  
**~~~~~**

 

"Really Jerome,"  Napoleon could hear Lebedev complaining to the clerk as they entered _Librairie Canard Noir_ that  afternoon.  "I'm sure Sofia simply forgot to mention it.  There's plenty of space in the window for the book."    Both men looked up as the door chimes sounded.  
  
Napoleon  stood back as Beldon moved to the counter,  a menacing presence in spite of the casual nod of greeting he gave the two men.  
  
Lebedev stared at him,  taking a step backwards, his hands nervously adjusting  his shawl.  At a  gesture from Beldon,  the clerk  went into the back room and closed the door.  "You should have stuck around for the denouement last night Pyotr,"  Beldon told Lebedev  with a frightening geniality.  
  
"I seldom stay for the music," Lebedev said, not quite looking at him.  
  
"You warned Victor I was coming.  Why?"  Napoleon saw Lebedev's hand move inside his jacket,  but Beldon had seen it too, and  grabbed  him by the wrist hard enough to make Lebedev wince.  
  
"I told you Harry.    I purvey information.  _Caveat emptor_.  How it's used is immaterial to me."  
  
"You betrayed me."  
  
"It's not personal  Harry.   Thrush is a generous paymaster."  
  
"Money?  this was about money you old cheat?"  
  
"You smug bastard, this was a pleasure,"  Lebedev spat out.  
  
Beldon  tightened his grasp on Lebedev's wrist and pulled him closer, held up his hand between them.  Without a word, he  used his other hand to bend back Lebedev's little finger until it snapped, never taking his eyes off the other man. It happend too quickly for Napoleon to react, not until  Lebedev's high keen filled the room, and Beldon let the wrist go, did he realize he was still holding his breath.  
  
  
Beldon turned to go, and Lebedev watched him, face contorted with pain, eyes black with shock, cradling his hand against his chest.    "It wasn't Victor I sold you out to," he called after them as they left,  his voice curdled with hate.  "It was Anouk."  
  
Beldon turned back, and though Napoleon couldn't see his expression, the sudden terror on Lebedev's face was plain.  But Beldon said no more and they made their way back to the car.  
  
"There was no point in killing him.  I may need him again and next time he'll  fear me,"  was all Beldon told him as they drove towards the _Gare du Nord_ .  
  
**~~~~~**  
  
  
Smoke billowed through the iron rafters as Napoleon watched the train pull out of the station  with Harry Beldon safely aboard.  He remained on the platform until the Express was out of sight,  then the wind  gusting in from the open north end  made him pull up the collar of his trenchcoat and slowly walk back to the main hall.   He watched the people around him, travellers and  workers, chatting families and silent men with their newpapers and briefcases, no different from the people he'd seen here yesterday.   
  
Beldon had said nothing about what happend last night, but there were things  he didn't have to say.   Watching Beldon  he'd  seen  how  thin  the membrane  that separated the world of UNCLE from the world of Thrush could be stretched sometimes.   He knew full well the  risks of doing so,   but he'd felt  too,  the energy that Beldon thrived on, the excitement of skating on the edge.  He could still smell the  scent of flowers and spice, it's seductive  promise  of danger and action.  
  
For the first time since joining UNCLE  Napoleon  was struck by how much his world  had changed.  He  could walk among the people around him, watch them live their lives,  but his work made  him no longer one of them.  He tested the thought;   there was little regret, that was not the life he wanted.  It was the cause that had drawn him to UNCLE, but it was the risk and the action that made him feel alive.   Paris was giving him an  education after all and he smiled to himself as he got back in the car.  Flowers and spice, danger and action,  they'd always be  linked in his mind.  
  
  
**~~~~~**

  
  
Sergei Kirov watched Kuryakin leave his office, the young man had shown little reaction when told his assignment was over; with Beldon's activities at the Pavilion last week,  Thrush had stepped back, the recruiting attempt was over.    But the Lieutenant  hadn't quite been able to hide  his relief  when told he'd be allowed to finish the semester at the Sorbonne.  
  
He tapped  his desk thoughtfully, then looked at the message again.  Underneath the usual bluster, Moscow's reaction to Kuryakin's aborted assignment seemed strangely  unruffled;  for that matter, Kurkayin's presence in Paris  just when Thrush had come looking,  had been an unusually convenient coincidence too.  Add UNCLE to that mix--someone was playing a deep game.  Kirov liked Paris, he had no desire to ask inconvenient questions, he'd just make sure to watch his own back.  
  
  
Illya Kuryakin waited until he was back in the street before he allowed himself to relax.  In spite of the cold wind, he  decided to walk back to his room near the University, walk off some of the nervous energy that lingered from his meeting with the Rezident.  They would allow him to finish his studies at the Sorbonne, for a moment he broke into a heedless smile,  the thought was enough to keep him warm.  He had accepted that the study at the Sorbonne would come with a price, not caring what it was.  But  to be ordered to  let  himself to be recruited as a double agent...   an airless life for as long as it lasted;  and with two suspicious masters, he doubted it would have lasted long.    He'd made his bed, he had to lie in it.  
  
But for once,  luck was with him;  luck  in the form of a man named Harry Beldon and his American friend, they'd  given him the means to escape that fate.    Now  the impressionable young man who started at Anouk's  warm touches and blushed when she whispered in his ear, was peeled off and put away.  She'd smelled of carnations and cloves.  The  perfume had been on her dresser,  in faceted glass, brilliant and cool.   She'd sprayed some on his jacket once.  "You frown too much," she'd said.   "Think of  me sometimes, and smile."  He was good at putting on and taking off roles.  If the man underneath had shared any of his alter ego's infatuation, well,  he knew to purge that too.  
  
The scent had already faded from his clothes.  He took a deep breath.  The week of rain had cleaned the air,   the only thing he smelled was a hint  of the coming spring.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompts were: poetry, decay and stuck. Perhaps honored more honored in the breach than the observance, dear kleenexwoman, but honored :)
> 
> *The poem quoted in the work is "La Mort des Amants" by Baudelaire. The linked lines in the story will take you to the complete poem and a translation. If you missed it, [it's here.](http://fleursdumal.org/poem/197)
> 
> Beldon's little brown thrush ditty is from [a childrens song by Lucy Larcom](http://etc.usf.edu/lit2go/109/selected-american-and-british-poems/5220/the-brown-thrush/). I know it says five, but you know, 10th Anniversary!!


End file.
